#78

Warmth of white spaces. Students still in rows, a slight incline. From my vantage point, the window and the world it frames. Spring-like light to me, distraction. Scott is seated to my right. Margreta's words: "vagrant," "impersonate," "primogeniture." The last, the first to clean. Rooms still fresh with paint and spotless floor. The first mark to be made on board, a scrawl.

Repeat that, these intimate faces, each left to find their way. The small talk of hallways, sidewalks, hear as specks that make the silence sing. In the mailroom, my slot the single space of nothing: no name to label what is mine. Yes, there are words that erase themselves. Surrender, learn to listen, flow.

And start again, light coats, the grain of underneath. Rewrite but don't discard. Recede, and then let grow. I sleep away the afternoon, so as to say, no more yet. And objects, they concur. Hold themselves as though were held. Think: passing sights to music, retread without retreat. My word games. Reservations: uncertanties, am I sure? For there are rooms to borrow, future spaces to secure. Or seats on trains that move you seated, forth.